


That Which We Call a Home

by Iuris



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: By any other name, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Wintering, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iuris/pseuds/Iuris
Summary: But Emhyr only smiled, a strange smile that made him looked strangely cruel, “I am not human,” he said, voice quiet and echoing in the ruined hall, “I am a witcher.”





	That Which We Call a Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [By Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210708) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



> You have to first read astolat’s By Any Other Name for this story to make sense (of course you did).  
> Again, please excuse my poor English if you see something that looks weird (oh yes you will...).  
> Finally, Loads of thanks to luciaexe for beta!

Vesemir loved his boys, no matter what they eventually turned out to be. But even in the worst-case scenario, they would usually only come out to become douchebags, terrorizing people or serving douchebag kings and dukes, like Orthin and Lauderic. And he would ban them from returning Kaer Morhen to winter. But he always found himself mourning when he learnt the news of their deaths, like that time when Lauderic got himself killed not defending a village from specters but on the bed with one of Duke Catalan’s mistresses.

He never expected what his last batch of students had become.

The first winter when he heard of Duny, the scrawny kid who always seemed too smart for his own good, had become the emperor of Nilfgaard, Vesemir felt he was having a midlife crisis. Not as a goddamn soldier for Kaedwen, he did not do anything to damage his witcher’s neutrality, he _was_ the enemy of neutrality. Even worse, he had taken his best pupil, Geralt with him, and there was not a damn thing that Vesemir could do about it, because they’d fallen in love, long before they set foot outside the walls of Kaer Morhen.

They didn’t come back for wintering that year.

The second winter he had to force Lambert to take a vow, that he would never reveal Duny’s secret. Not that he cared about Duny’s welfare much and definitely not for the sake of peace for Nilfgaard. Vesemir only managed admitting to himself that he simply did not want to feel that he had failed, tremendously, that prime directive in witcher training: avoid making them into those who could affect the course of history. Lambert finally promised, grudgingly, that he would not tell anyone else that the Emperor of Nilfgaard was a witcher from the wolf school.

When he thought that he would never see any of them again, Geralt reappeared at the third year, past the winter solstice and alone. Around the same time a war broke out between Nilfgaard and Cintra. But even Lambert was smart enough to not discuss this war in the great halls of Kaer Morhen. Geralt was still a young witcher, but it had been years that Vesemir heard him laugh. He thought it must be the result of those enhanced witcher mutations that finally started to take effect.

Then came the fourth winter, and the fifth, the years gone by like the fleeting golden sand in an hourglass. Geralt came back every winter after that, he got a scar over his left eye on the eighth, and a huge stash of aged ale on the tenth— the issuer of his last contract went bankrupt with a cellar full of good wine— and the Nilfgaardian troops camped at the south bank of Pontar. 

Vesemir could see that he had finally become a great witcher. The emotions hadn’t return, but Geralt had started getting the grip of making sharp remarks. The winter in Kaer Morhen stopped being too gloomy, as Lambert began storming up the stairs much more often. 

And in the eleventh year, Geralt came back first time not alone.

The girl with him was a spitting image of Geralt himself save for the eyes, for a second Vesemir thought the teratogenic effects of the mutagens had gone seriously wrong. 

“What is your name, young lady?” he asked. The girl was wearing a suspiciously familiar wolf medallion on her neck, newer, and identical to Geralt’s.

“Cirilla,” the girl replied proudly, “and it’s not young lady, I am a princess.”

Vesemir raised an eyebrow at Geralt, _teratogenic effects_ indeed. It surely seemed that Duny had been lucky. “Well,” he said slowly. “I beg your pardon, your highness.”

He handed Cirilla to Lambert before turning to Geralt again.

“He wanted her to be trained here,” the younger witcher explained a little uncomfortably, scratching his head, “the capital is not a safe place for Ciri, not when he is fighting a war in the north.”

Vesemir closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. “What about the kid’s mother? You sure Kaer Morhen is a better place for a princess compared to the palace of the golden towers?”

There was a flicker across Geralt’s face, a mixture of pain and embarrassment, and a little bit of regret. “Pavetta died when giving birth to Ciri, partially the reason which led to the war that devastated Cintra seven years ago. She became my ward since then. ”

He didn’t know what to say, so Vesemir put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, “I am sorry.”

They had the conversation long overdue by the fire, each with a mug of warm White Gull. The words suddenly began to flow easier, and Vesemir found himself began to resent Duny a little bit less.

“I only stayed in Nilfgaared for a couple of months before the marriage, “ Geralt admitted, “in the first several years, I kept my distance. Once even spent fourteen months in Skellige, until one day he showed up at Nenneke’s temple heavily disguised, with Ciri in tow, she was a spoiled four year old and was hating him already because he refused to let her ride a pony by herself.” He laughed abruptly and stopped. “I’m sorry too, for everything.”

“So where the hell is he now?” Vesemir emptied the last bit of White Gull, and heard Lambert upstairs cursed loudly.

“Brugge.” Geralt stared into the crackling fire for some time and replied. 

#

Eight more years passed since that night when Vesemir had Geralt sat down in front of the fire and told him firmly to bring Duny back for Yuletide, and no, he would not try to murder the Emperor of Nilfgaard and to end the war for them. He was not particularly fond of the Northern Kings either.

Geralt had remained cautious. During the time he spent contemplating, the war quietly ended. Vizimir of Redania died suddenly and tragically which led his country plummeting into chaos and a devastating power struggle between the brutal prince Radovid and the late king’s consultant, Sigismund Dijkstra. Dijkstra finally won the fight but later it turned out that he had made a deal with Nilfgaard for a seat in the imperial court, so forth the black sun started to fly from Tretogor to Novigrad without a single village torched. Aedirn, Kovir, Lyria and Rivia had one by one become provinces of Nilfgaard as the emperor promised them semi-autonomous and free trade with full support of the empire’s resources. When it finally came to Temeria, Geralt was genuinely worried for Foltest, he had woken up one night with Duny’s voice ringing in his ears.

_“It might one day prove inconvenient.”_

He glanced beside him and found the other side of the bed empty. The next day, the emperor offered King Foltest his own cousin’s hand, Duchess Anna Henrietta of Toussaint, in marriage. Geralt snorted and slipped out of the engagement ceremony three days later, and rode directly to Velen to help dealing with a water hag infestation around Crow’s Perch, and played lots of Gwent with the Bloody Baron, the local ruler who received a substantial sum from Nilfgaard as the financial support to build a brand new highway.

It was the day Nilfgaardian troops finally rode into Kaedwen when Geralt lay down the cards.

“We should go back to Kaer Morhen this winter.” He casually remarked over dinner when he visited the Palace. The emperor Emhyr var Emreis paused and looked up from his wine and letters. “No.” He said flatly, but his shoulders were stiff, “I have no intention to spend time in a place _colder_.”

It was November, just after the autumn equinox, but in the city of golden towers, the air was only about to getting crispy. The orange sunlight poured in through the massive windows as the evening bell rang.

“Come on,” Geralt coaxed, “It will be the first spring you don’t have a war to fight, lots of people are planning to take some time off, Ciri will be there, and Vesemir actually misses you.”

Emhyr var Emreis glared hard and put down his letters to give Geralt a warning frown. He was unperturbed.

“And you could plan your domestic cleansing after this winter, I’m sure everyone would still be here when you return.”

#

Geralt wished he _had_ remembered to leave the imperial guards at least ten miles outside of Kaer Morhen. As they quietly walked across the grounds of the castle, Lambert appeared from literally nowhere, yelling “slowpoke!” then flung himself right at them and hooked an arm over Emhyr’s shoulder. Everyone flinched and Geralt had to calm the splattering, purpling imperial guard captain Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach from pulling his sword at Lambert, which might end up getting himself and the whole forty men killed. Lambert always killed first and asked questions later.

Emhyr, on the other hand, had freed himself from Lambert’s grip with an alarming speed and grace. “Go back to Ard Carraigh, Cahir. ” He said to the Nilfgaardian nonchalantly, ignoring the young man’s gasp of panic, “come back for us in Imbolc.”

“But Sire, that’s two months from now!”

“You can send all my correspondences here,” Emhyr waved a hand, already started walking ahead, “and people who only have the most absolutely necessary means.”

Eskel, on the other hand, seemed calm as always, “your majesty,” he inclined his head in a fluent motion, “welcome back.” Even Emhyr seemed mildly surprised. After they finally got rid of the guards and went inside the halls of Kaer Morhen, Geralt realized something.

“Where is Vesemir?”

It turned out that no one had seen the older witcher for the better part of the day. Geralt stood in front of Vesemir’s older quarters and hesitated, Emhyr reached out, knocked on the door three times, pushed it open and directly walked in. Geralt stared after him. Vesemir was standing next to a table in the middle of the room, rolls of parchment filled its surface.

“It’s good to see you alive and well, old man.” Emhyr said. He didn’t even try to sound sarcastic.

Vesemir grunted, glanced at him and shook his head, “well, Duny, you know what, so am I.”

“Anybody cares to tell me what is going on?” Geralt said, he stared at Vesemir’s face and back to Emyhr, whose expression weirdly resembled a sense of complacency.

It turned out that Emhyr had not avoided Vesemir like he’d cared to let out. He started approaching the old witcher a while ago by offering a repair plan for Kaer Morhen, devastated by the barbaric attacks over the years and the time itself. Vesemir accepted. And he even brought out the old plans for this thousand-year-old keep. They’d even discovered some very interesting secret tunnels, basements and stuffs later on.

It might be easier for the both of them to start like this, instead with “what happened with life” type of reconcile. Geralt mused. He happily bid the two of them farewell, ignoring their protests, and went to find his usual chamber located at the top of the tower, equipped with a wooden tub and a small fireplace. He lit the fire, and tried to heat up some water in the tub.

Emhyr found him late that night when the first snow had quietly begun to fall. He’d already changed into loose linen shirts and pants and dug out a giant bear skin from some old storage place no one knew it existed. He brought it into the room and lay it on the bed. Geralt squinted.

“I am not a young man anymore.”Emhyr said. He tested the thickness of the fur blanket, frowning at the old cracking bed topped with a sad straw mattress.

“You are theoretically a 40-year-old witcher.” Geralt retorted, huddling in front of the fire that seemed failed to provide the room any warmth, perhaps being at the very top of the tower didn’t help much either. “You don’t get to have arthritis and no one here will call you out if you don’t behave like a royalty. And yes, I sleep here.” He stole a glance towards Emhyr, thinking to ask for some help, but changed his mind mid-way.

#

“How exactly did you get _these?_ ”

They broke into the dungeon at midnight, carefully crept past Lambert’s door, like a pair of amateur witchers again. When Geralt excitedly pointed this out to Emhyr, he huffed and said something about rules and emperors, and that if Geralt wanted, he was welcomed to break more rules by all means.

By breaking more rules, they’d ended up clearing out a room full of old skins and furs. Geralt shook his head. “I am _not_ carrying them up to the tower.” He said, eyeing Emhyr, who had fed another large log to the fire in the main fireplace of the great hall, next to the stairs to the dungeon, the place suddenly looking much cozier as the wind outside the castle had started howling.

“There you go.” Emhyr said with an air of someone who had just conquered another small nation. He dumped whatever he was holding in front of the fire, two bear skins, four grey wolves, and one ridiculously looking peacock tail, and raised an eyebrow at Geralt, “well?”

“You actually want to sleep here.” Geralt shrugged and threw down his, adding to the already raising mountain of warm and soft thickness, illuminated by the creamy light of the merrily going fire. “Not sure how it will go with Vesemir.”

Emhyr gave him a look. “Fine, why not.” Geralt said, he hadn’t bothered wearing his boots after the bath, now the stone floor had started to get cold.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping.” He stripped his pants and pulled off his shirt, shivering. Emhyr didn’t move. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” He went and buried himself inside the furry pile and eyed Emhyr again, he had a look of mixed disapproval, exasperation and amusement, and then he sighed visibly.

And so they lay on the fur for a long time before Emhyr said, “maybe it’s not a bad idea,” while Geralt was madly trying to think of a nice and smooth way to let out a potentially inappropriate proposal. He was pretty sure the last time when they were in the witchers’ keep, Vesemir overheard them again and he was not very impressed, thankfully they were out on the Path the next day so he didn’t get a chance to say anything about it. But that had been more then twenty years ago and now it was the first day of the two long months of wintering. Emhyr was gazing into the depths of the celling of the great hall, then he turned and looked directly into Geralt with a strange glint in his eyes.

“Oh,“ Geralt blinked slowly. He was thinking of a casual hand job or something. They have not done this as much as they probably should have, surprisingly. Maybe for the first couple of months when they just got to Nilfgaard, and then a lot of things happened. After that, Geralt was getting used to be a witcher, and Emhyr was obviously getting even better at being an emperor. Geralt was once asked to stay, but he declined, there was not much work for him in Nilfgaard, and they both agreed Geralt would be more helpful in the North. Most of the time he would go to Emhyr when an imperial witcher is needed for an critical job, or when the sleepless nights started to get longer. Occasionally, Emhyr would also come to him, he’d find him in taverns or near a campfire, wrapped in a heavy hooded cloak, and he would leave before dawn.

They hadn’t been trying to keep it a secret, but not many knew either. There were rumors, and there were also Ciri, but they never talked about it. They had been maintaining their relationship like this for the past, like, eight years. It was not really that long for a witcher, well, two witchers.

“Precisely.” Emhyr said hoarsely, buried deep in fur, “I would like to have you here.”

#

Geralt was nervous. They’ve had sex in weirder places, but Kaer Morhen, which seemed to Geralt, was always associated with a substantial degree of anxiety. Maybe it was because that this place was associated with their first time which did not go too well, so was the second and the last time. He felt that the castle and Vesemir himself were both watching them judgingly, nonstop.

Emhyr, on the other hand, seemed determined to get over this. Geralt had a strange and funny feeling that he was also determined to face Kaer Morhen as the last place he had yet to conquer, and that was his real plan of coming here. He climbed on top of Geralt, pressing him deeper into those fur, waved his hand away impatiently. “No,” he said, speaking as if Geralt was the castle, “I want you to _surrender_ to me.”

Geralt tried to call him out on this emperor bullshit, “I am not a damn city,” he meant to say, but when Emhyr breached him without warning, his breath was knocked out of his chest. He clutched down involuntarily, now it became even more painfully obvious to him that they haven’t done this for a while. The finger was slippery, thanks to the Nilfgaardian obsession of keeping a vial of oil at hand for their skins all the time, Geralt had made fun of this custom before, now he was just glad that they wouldn’t have to steal Vesemir’s sword oil.

The fire was burning warm as he gripped a pelt underneath and shuddered when Emhyr replaced the fingers with his cock. Geralt remotely realized his whine must have echoed in the emptiness of the hall, and it couldn’t be mistaken for the wind over the mountains. Emhyr was deceptively good in keeping his facade as an emperor, and it was easy to forget that he was a witcher too. Not in scenarios like this.

“Oh Emhyr,” he gasped after a particularly hard and delicately angled thrust, “that was—”

The name tasted strange on his tongue. He reached up to touch the broad shoulders, fingers trancing hard muscles and scars not unlike Geralt’s himself, then he tried again. “Duny,” he said, and let his legs fell open uselessly.

Emhyr grabbed his fingers and pressed them down over his head, intertwined with his own, digging inside of the thick fur and brought their faces inches apart. “Yes,” he breathed, moving deep inside. “The ghosts are watching, but you will open yourself up for me. Even if the walls crumbled and fell from the earthquake or this castle overrun by monsters, we shall finish what we had started.”

If the old ghosts had indeed been watching them, Geralt didn’t notice nor did he care. When he came down, panting frantically, from the horrifying wildfire inflicted by Emhyr’s hot words, whispered relentlessly into his ear, feeling Emhyr’s seeds leaking out from his abused hole onto the sleek fur under his body, and gingerly untangled himself from Emhyr’s shoulders with a groan, he realized Lambert was standing on the last flight of the stairs, wearing an expression of strange mixture of disappointment, disgust and satisfaction.

#

They had breakfast together the next morning, sitting at the long table with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, bacon from a wild boar Vesemir had caught and smoked in the summer, toasts and scrambled eggs. They were far from a Nilfgaardian standard, but they were delicious. Geralt gratefully accepted a much needed steaming mug from Eskel who sat down next to him, when Lambert, looking as if he would soon implode, blurted out, “what the fuck was last night, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed and look over towards Emhyr, who was sitting at the far end of the table, keeping his distance and was leafing through a pile of letters and documents Cahir had so dutifully sent up to the gate.

“I am not at liberty to divulge that information.” He looked over at Vesemir again, the older witcher was rubbing his temples.

“The fuck you are not!” Lambert spat.

“Shut up Lambert.” Eskel said before anyone could say anything else. Emhyr only slightly raised one eyebrow, and Geralt highly suspected that he casted an Axii underneath the table, because Lambert suddenly became oddly quiet and particularly bitchy for the rest of the day. When the sun started to set, Geralt spotted two horses approaching the castle, however nobody would get lost around here.

“Things just keep on getting better.” He muttered to himself.

Dandelion and Zoltan Chivay were standing outside with a quite large pile of luggage, a lute, a big tube, a full crate of wine and two big smiles.

“No you are not.” Geralt said.

“We are here to keep you company! For the entire winter!”

“What happened to the Rosemary and Thyme?”

The question fell to dead ears. To give some credit, it was actually not that bad, Emhyr was somewhat amused by Dandelion’s new ballad, and he _did_ have lots of new books tucked away in that enormous luggage. And Zoltan was a really good ally when come to a battle with Lambert. And they were both superb Gwent players. However, Geralt knew it wouldn’t stop there. Maybe the castle was that offended.

The conundrum mercilessly continued when Triss Merigold appeared, dragging an obviously sulking Yennefer of Vengerberg behind her. Geralt instantly wished he had jumped out of the window, maybe swam across the lake and disappeared into the wild was a great idea. He did have some brief, somewhat magically induced relationships with both of the sorceresses, not at the same time, mind you, when things with Emhyr had become a bit too complicated for him to handle. He suspected Emhyr had known of it all along but told himself it was his own way of handling issues like Pavetta, invasion and unsavory schemes. Those were over more than ten years ago, but unfortunately witchers and sorceresses were both long living creatures. And more unfortunately, if for some unlikely reasons, Emhyr hadn’t been informed of all the facts, he sure did now.

Because he and Yennefer have been bickering for three days, on literally everything. Emhyr offered no help. 

#

As Geralt made a mental note to never come back to Kaer Morhen again – he had been asking himself all this time why on earth he would want to persuade Emhyr to come back for the winter— the answer presented itself before the winter solstice.

They received several more guests – Geralt had completely given up by then. Letho of Gulet, another witcher from the school of viper, was helping Eskel and Triss hunting down a pack of boars. They’ve gone out this morning, three days before the festival, into the snow covered forest hurling a heavy sleigh. The vampire Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy also arrived one night – gave everyone such a scare when he materialized out of a black smoke, having received a mysterious invitation and have been complaining about the cold since he arrived. Geralt tried not to roll his eyes. He was actually happy to see Regis, the vampire was a good companion he once met on a contract at Zerrikania, where they’ve encountered Zerrikanterment, a golden dragon before the mission began to turn a lot weirder. He was at least glad that Borch Three Jackdaws was not also here. Regis brought some bottles of mandrake distillate, and Geralt was starting to get tired of getting drunk on White Gull. Everyone was so absolutely unsurprised to see the Emperor of Nilfgarrd wintering in Kaer Morhen that it had become a bit unnerving, except for perhaps the Blue Stripes commander Vernon Roche, who was escorting a small personal tribute – two full carts –from Foltest and Anna Henrietta to the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and got stuck when the snow was getting too thick for his caravan to move out. So they’ve had more than enough of 20-year-cured hams, two cases of vintage port and brandy, boxes of dried salmons and scallops from Velen, some very special kind of sweet tea and plenty of fresh vegetables and fruits. Probably enough to feed fifty people for a whole winter, even without the full pantry Vesemir had stocked up this fall.

The same morning Geralt had finally decided to clear out the pile of fur in front of the fireplace – it was getting suspicious. He tried to get Emhyr to help, but he just tossed the upper piece – the one rose the most amount of suspicion– directly into the fire with pretend admonition, “my job is to find a plan to save the castle, but that one is beyond saving.”

“You have been working this plan for days,” Geralt said after he single-handedly hid the last piece of fur in their chambers. The days were getting colder, thankfully it was sunny. “Come with me to the tower,” he pleaded.

Emhyr probably had already planned to say no, but something made him changed his mind. “ Alright.” Then added, a bit accusingly, “the integrity of the walls are compromised. Kaer Morhen won’t stand for another half a century.”

“Half a century is a long time, ” Geralt said, as they cleared off the snow on top of one of the abandoned tower and sat down, wrapped in warm wool cloaks, basked in the warm sun in this late winter morning, the mandrake moonshine he had too early this morning was burning low in this stomach, “may I distract you with something more urgent?”

When he leant in and started to kiss him, Emhyr even managed to look baffled.

Regis smirked at them when they come down for lunch, Vesemir remained unimpressed. It looked as it was going to be the most peaceful day for a long while, with Lambert went out somewhere and Yennefer temporally teleported out to town for some holiday supplies – Geralt could never understand the point of holing up somewhere wintering if you could teleport in and out as you wish, but then again, there were plenty of things that he never understood about sorceresses. Roche was still uncomfortable around Emhyr. Dandelion was writing frantically on a notebook, alarmingly quiet, Geralt had an urge of stealing his notebook, maybe set the thing on fire too.

Then the answer came when he was reaching for a slice of cheese. A flash of green light appeared before his eyes, and Ciri, covered in sweat and dirt, jumped out, dragging an equally dishevelled elf behind her.

“Uncle Vesemir, we are in trouble –“ Ciri stopped, “ _Papa?_ ” Her eyes widened when she saw everyone at the table, “and Geralt?”

“Oho, ” the vampire said pleasantly, “fancy seeing you here, Avallac’h.”

The elf named Avallac’h spluttered snow out of his mouth and straightened his back, “Emiel,” he drawled dramatically and turned to Emhyr, bowing, “Your imperial majesty.”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Geralt jumped up from his seat, glaring at Avallac’h. He thought Ciri was travelling between the worlds these days, the last time she sent a message, it was in a place called Camelot, which he had never heard of. The little girl he treated like his own possessed the most strange power, after she turned fourteen, Kaer Morhen had already become too small for her, so was the city of Golden Towers. He was terribly sad that she had to leave so soon, Emhyr, however, seemed let out a huge breath of relief. Later on when Ciri introduced them Avallac’h and suggested she was planning to train with him, Geralt was furious.

“He stole my Ciri.” He had come and complained to Emhyr, “probably planning to use her in some evil experiments under the disguise of uncovering her hidden talents, how _could_ you allow it?”

“ _Our_ Ciri.” Emhyr had said. And he proceeded in comforting Geralt by making the witcher unable to leave the royal bed chambers for the next two full days.

So Emhyr shot out a hand and grabbed his, forcefully pulling him down. “What trouble, Cirilla? Speak slowly.” he asked dryly, ignoring Geralt, who was hissing angrily at Avallac’h like an indignant cat.

“We are being pursued by the Wild Hunt.” Ciri looked at both of them, obviously was wondering whose question to answer first, after a while, she inhaled deeply and blurted out. Dandelion gasped loudly, Roche looked confused.

“Calm down, lass,” Zoltan added, glancing over at everyone’s varied expressions, frowning deep, “when you met Odin out there, you only need to carry a piece of bread and a piece of steel.”

“No, Zoltan, you old moron,” Dandelion rolled his eyes, “not the Wild Hunt of the Yule.”

#

The Wild Hunt, as Avallac’h explained, were a bunch of egotistic and sadistic assholes who basically are the destroyer of worlds. Possessed with superior power, they traveled between planets and tried to shape them into whatever they thought was the best, including killing hundreds of thousands of people in the name of saving their homes.

“And they are also _your_ people.” Geralt reminded him triumphantly.

Avallac’h sighed. “I remembered having apologized to you already on what happened in that cave, you surely can hold a grudge, witcher.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. “Cave.” He murmured in semi-amusement. Geralt coughed and darted a nervous side-glance at him, and sat down sulking.

“They are your people?” Ciri said, suspicion in her eyes, “but, you look…normal, I mean, size wise.”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point,” Avallac’h waved off her question, albeit a bit uneasily, “I have lived in this world long enough. And they are, as I said earlier, very self-centric elves, all races have people who are...born evil.”

The room was eerily quiet. “Explain why the Wild Hunt is interested in Cirilla.” After a while, Emhyr broke the silence, “and I am eager to hear whatever plans you have."

The reason, as Geralt somewhat already guessed, was Cirilla’s powers, the Wild Hunt were trying to harvest her teleportation powers in order to widen the doorway between two worlds—theirs and a completely parallel, but much darker universe, bring them to collapse with each other and observe the results. Sick bastards. Meanwhile it had turned out that Avallac’h didn’t have too much of a plan — that was why he brought Ciri back home to Kaer Morhen – to the people who loved and knew her the best for help. He admitted he never expected to see so many people there, though. Therefore they started to put together a plan, a very basic one to say _fuck you_ to the Wild Hunt which involved using Geralt as bait, and basically to improvise everything else from there.

“We have a bunch of witchers, two sorceresses, an army and a vampire.” Geralt commented, “I don’t see a better chance to get rid of the Wild Hunt, once for all.”

“Careful, Geralt.” Avallac’h replied, “they are not like your average monsters. And based on the reactions you had back in that cave, I’d say you are not very good in dealing with non-average monsters.”

“Oh, cut it out, you damn elf.” Geralt said angrily.

Triss and Eskel came back later that afternoon dragging a huge hog behind them, and they were joined by Letho and Lambert, the two witcher run into each other somewhere and took a quick contract together. As a result, they had fresh pastries for dinner that night. After dessert, they sat around the table and tried to use empty chalice and utensils as objects to plan out their defense.

Yennefer arrived in the middle of their little meeting, burst into tears when she saw Ciri, and then turned extremely grave when she heard of their plans.

“You are going to get fucked to go out like this, without protection,” exclaimed the raven haired sorceress, waving an exasperated hand, “even if you _like_ getting fucked –”

“Ouch,” Dandelion said.

“Please, lady Yennefer,” Ciri groaned, “please not now.”

Roche swallowed. Regis gave a comforting pat on his shoulders. “You need shields—no, _Quen_ won’t do. Do you have any idea about the level of cold they bring with them? And carry objects that can generate emergency portals to teleport you back to safety.” Yen continued, ignoring the pained groans from Geralt and awkward coughs from everyone else except Emhyr.

“You mentioned the cold. We could target their weaknesses by setting up traps made with fire bombs.” Regis, being the one true helpful friend, cleared his throat and suggested.

“That old cannons on the watch tower,“ Vesemir immediately added, looking glad that someone jumped in to change the subject, “we can try to adjust them to fit the Superior Dragon's Dream spiked with Dimeritium dust. Those should effectively neutralize most of their magic.”

“Very well,” Emhyr said, assuming the leadership already. “And General Voorhis is already sending reinforcement,” he added, while looking at Geralt long and hard, “Cirilla needs to stay with me during the combat, and no buts.”

#

A blizzard hit two days later, right on the eve of the midwinter day. The castle was thankfully well stocked with wood, and the fireplace was trying to show some support as well, for once it was toasting their room. “This is a terribly bad idea,” Geralt said, whining high and writhing on their fur-rich bed, covered in glistening sweat.

Their plan was still not solid and “half-assed and full of holes” according to Emhyr, Geralt really wished he could generate a smart reply on Emhyr’s deliberate horrible choice of words, but all he could manage was a surprised gasp followed by a series of loud moans and curses. Emhyr was moving in and out of him languidly for almost the entire night, which drove him crazy at first – he didn’t mind that much after the third round of release – and suddenly picked up his pace. Damn his witcher mutations and elven bloodline.

“We are going to face...an evil supernatural force and maybe none of us can get out alive,” Geralt said, between pants and gulping hard, he was trying to keep his legs up and around Emhyr’s waist, which had become increasingly difficult because of the sweat and they were trembling uncontrollably, “and this fact…turns you on _how?_ ”

“It turns me on because this is an excellent opportunity to let everyone know that you are mine.” Emhyr commented thoughtfully and then savagely, “no one is going to die. I will not allow it.”

“Plus if anyone _is_ going to die, it would be...oh.” Geralt stopped, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “Are you afraid of _me_ dying, Emhyr?”

He got his reply in the form of a particular hard thrust. “Gods Emhyr,” he whimpered, threw his head back and moaned, “I can't believe this conversion does not affect your libido the slightest.”

The next morning before they finished the final battle preparations and were about to head out, Geralt found out that his image was unmercifully shattered in front of Ciri. Lambert was in the middle of a small group, comprising Ciri, Triss, Roche, Dandelion and Zoltan and all of these evoked Geralt too much of their unpleasant childhood memories, who was even further occupied in a vivid performance which involved some appalling sounds and – Geralt was sure of it – his much too colorful, even more appalling imagination.

“Can’t you do something about it? Say, permanently paralyze him?” Geralt demanded, Emhyr literally shrugged.

Thankfully Vesemir came along with Eskel, who smacked Lambert in the head and dragged him away for their cannon repair jobs. The little group dispersed quickly and Roche and Triss were never quite able to meet his eyes for a long time. Geralt fumed and went to get prepared, and found Letho was already waiting for him. “Emhyr var Emreis told me to come with you, said two baits are better than one.” The larger witcher clicked his tongue at Geralt while watching him pulling his gear on, “it’s alright, White Wolf, everyone is allowed to have some dirty little secrets.”

“Thanks, but too late. It’s hardly a secret anymore.” Geralt replied bitterly.

The air was even colder this morning when they headed out, their breath hung frozen, in little pockets of white puffs, and Geralt thought he had lost his sense of smell. The Wild Hunt was near, he could feel it. He’d planned to say goodbye to Emhyr before he rode out, but it seemed that the Emperor was trying his best to avoid him. “Keep an eye on him, will you?” He eventually gave up and said to Ciri, “and you are going to be fine.”

They tied up their horses and walked deep into the woods, Geralt could also sense Regis was around, keeping a close watch. For a very long while there was nothing – at least that was what it seemed at first. Then he suddenly paused, bent down to look at the grass and said, “this could be a trap.”

He heard Letho paused in front of him.

“We’ve been here before, but the castle is always at our backs, and I’m sure we didn’t lose our way or went in circles.” Geralt explained, “this is an illusion.” As if a response, everything shifted when he straightened to look up. Letho was no longer in front of him, the woods became darker and the snow beneath his feet disappeared.

They have made a mistake.

“What do you want?” He called out into the void, finding a bottle of _cat_ and downed it in one gulp. The darkness still surrounded him. He realized he could be trapped in a pocket universe or this could be all happening in his head. “It’s of no use you know, you can trap me here, kill me if you want but you shall never have her.”

Someone laughed behind him, deep and menacing, and he swirled around, silver sword in hand but he couldn’t see anyone, in fact even the ground beneath him had disappeared, he was floating, not quite falling, and the voice all around him spoke again, “who said I wish to have her?”

With that the blackness faded as if a curtain had drawn in front of his eyes. Geralt blinked at the sudden brightness and gaped at the weird futuristic scene unfolded in front of him. Cities with endless different styles of architectures made of glass and steel reaching high into the sky, enclosed carriages flying by themselves and Large machineries emitting white smoke in the background.

“Your daughter saw this and was also fascinated by this future,” the voice said, materializing into a man clad in heavy iron armor, Geralt couldn’t see his face, but he knew he was the King of the Wild Hunt. The King spoke again, “isn’t this glamourous? There will be no hunger or disease, no violence or misery. Ride with us, Geralt of Rivia, and we shall make this future yours.”

“Nice speech,” Geralt shrugged, “you might have better luck with Emhyr var Emreis on your little plan of enhancing humanity, sadly I’m not him. No, come to think again, I don’t think you can fool him either. Unlike you, Emhyr is smart enough to not playing god.”

“The humans will destroy your world with their greed and fear,” the King of the Wild Hunt continued, “and they will destroy you and those who you loved.” He waved his hand again, the scene before him changed. Geralt saw Lambert, Eskel and Letho, their lifeless eyes; Triss and Yennefer, their beautiful faces disappeared in the flames; he also saw Dandelion and Zoltan hanging limply from the scaffold and Regis and Avallac’h sealed in some deep, dark cave. He saw Vesemir used his body to shield Ciri from a pouring rain of arrows, and her agonized rage started to pry open a gateway to another world, a dark spreading matter seeping in from the other side, its shadow mirroring his world, swallowing everything and reduce them to nothingness. Geralt screamed and reached out desperately to pull her from her own reflection, and the scene switched again. He saw Emhyr, through painful blurry vision, standing on the steps of his palace, high and proud and surrounded by faceless men, his long golden silk embroidered black mantel darkened by blood that had already pooled at his feet.

“And you alone can protect them.”

The world turned, Geralt found himself on his knees and was panting, he was back in the snowy damp forest again. He didn’t know he was left there for how long, when he finally gathered enough strength to look up, Kaer Morhen was engulfed in a tornado of hail and frozen winds.

He activated the mini portal and was dumped mercilessly on castle courtyard, then was immediately greeted with a cursing and yelling Lambert, who threw a bomb at him, missed only by centimeters and detonated right behind him. “What the fuck, Geralt, I thought you were the Wild Hunt,” he hissed, “Letho came back hours ago, where the hell have you been?”

“Long story,” he replied, still breathing hard. “Where is Ciri?”

Triss landed a giant fireball next to them and crashed two Wild Hunt soldiers, Eskel came and put his silver sword in a third. “She was with Vesemir and Emhyr’s army arrived just in time.”

“Come with me,” Geralt yelled at the three, “the Wild Hunt is not interested in taking Ciri, they planned to use her powers to destroy the world from here.”

They were confused but followed him, running towards the gate to the castle and cutting down as many Wild Hunt soldiers as they can, they saw dead bodies of Nilfgaardians and picked up Regis and then Yennefer who was busy keeping up a protective shield around the castle. “No use, they are already in.” Geralt told her, she looked pissed and puzzled, but joined them regardless.

They bolted through the gate and was greeted with a chilling scene. There were bodies clad in black everywhere, among them lay Dandelion and Zoltan, Geralt could only pray that they were only knocked out. The King of the Wild Hunt and two of his generals were facing a snarling Ciri and a grave Vesemir. Emhyr was nowhere to be seen—Geralt was not sure if he should be more betrayed or relieved—only a shaky Morvran Voorhis who was pointing his sword towards his towering opponent.

“How terribly pathetic, my brother,” the King of the Wild Hunt sneered, “to defend this ugly primitive species with…your life?”

“You are so wrong, Eredin.” Avallac’h replied calmly, while holding a small force field in front of him, but before he could say anything else and before Geralt could stop his companions, Lambert flung himself forward, intended to bury his silver sword in Eredin’s throat. The King of the Wild Hunt didn’t even turn.

“Caranthir.” He called out smoothly. One of the two generals thumped his staff on the floor once, and several icy blue blasts shot out from the tip, it felt like being hit square on the face with a storm made of ice and he lost his breath for a second. He finally glanced back and discovered in shock that everyone who’d come in with him had been turned into individual ice statues, even the higher vampire Regis.

“Ah, welcome.” Eredin strode towards him, “pardon me for all of this, but I loath violence.” He waved a hand at Avallac’h and broke his force field as if with no effort, slammed him into a wall behind in the process, “I am so tired of trying to convince you.” Morvran blanched, but he was still trying to shield Ciri standing next to Vesemir.

“But you, my dear witcher,” Eredin circled him before leaning down to whisper freezing words at his ears, “you have a choice to change this, to _save them_.” He snapped his fingers again, and the other general suddenly grabbed Vesemir by the neck and lifted him up like he weighed nothing. Ciri screamed. The walls of the castle started to shake violently, with a green light shining through from behind them, a horribly familiar scene that Geralt had seen in his nightmare so many times. “Surrender to _me_ ,” Eredin coaxed. Vesemir’s struggle had gone limp.

He almost gave in. He wanted to tell him to fuck off, and he knew that they were lying, he wouldn’t be able to save any of them, and the world is still going to end. But those sleek words penetrated his foggy brain like a bottle of spirit in the cold winter day and he simply couldn’t resist. The strength eluded him. He reached out like a drowning man reaching out for a piece of floating wood.

And then he heard. Loud and clear.

“Get out of my home.” Emhyr said. “And get your filthy hands off my family.”

Geralt looked up and blinked, reality slowing returning to his brain as he started to fight off the remnants of a powerful hypnosis. Eredin seemed shocked by this unexpected intrusion and released his hold on Geralt for a second, he took the chance and throw the first thing next to his hand – a heavy silver hatchet towards the general who was holding Vesemir. The Wild Hunt general gave a pained howl and grabbed his shoulders, let go of Vesemir, and Ciri immediately stopped screaming and scrambled to his side. The green light faded inside the old stones. _Not me alone_. Geralt finally yelled to the sneering voice that had been in his head since he fell out from that pocket universe. He stared up at Emhyr, who had discarded his luxurious robes and gold chains, standing there with two swords on his back.

“ _You,_ ” Eredin snarled, a ball of glowing ice storm already forming in his hand, Geralt stared at it in hopeless horror as the King of the Wild Hunt raised his hand and hurled the lethal energy towards Emhyr, “a mere human king dared to challenge me?”

But Emhyr only smiled, a strange smile that made him looked strangely cruel, “I am not human,” he said, voice quiet and echoing in the ruined hall, “I am a witcher.”

Without further movements, a giant golden ball of light suddenly descended on him, enveloping him. The powerful storm shattered on its surface, all energy absorbed and the light shone even brighter. Geralt realized it was in the shape of the Sun. It continued to expand, until Geralt could feel its warm embrace. Everything seemed to burst into flames, the golden rays of his unique Quen shield reached every corner of the room. All the ice statues started to melt, and one by one they shook themselves and picked up their weapon, the sorceresses crackling magic between their fingers, Regis morphed into a giant angry bat and circling over Caranthir, emitting ear piercing squeaks. Emhyr slowly walked down, with a even stranger Igni burning in his hands, when he draw his silver sword, a white flame danced ferociously along his arms and traveled towards the tip of this blade.

Eredin took a step back, unsure of the turn of events, Ciri had seized the opportunity and teleported behind him, and immediately delivered a strong attack which he only narrowly escaped. Caranthir had already suffered multiple injuries from a furious Regis, and the tides were turned.

One by one they retreated into a portal leading to the world where they came from. Ciri gave a frustrated cry and tried to follow, Geralt grabbed her firmly and shook his head. Before the light of the portal disappeared, Geralt heard Eredin spoke into his mind one last time, “what a shame,” he hissed disdainfully, “to let the world you know reduced to ashes.”

“The world can go to hell.” Geralt said, and pushed him firmly out of his head.

#

It had taken a solid week before Vesemir managed to get out his bed again. Yes he was old but not that old. The last three days he’d mostly spent contemplating Duny—Emhyr. There was just too much about that used-to-be-skinny kid he’d rescued from that cave thirty years ago that he had stopped contemplating. But he came back and saved the day, left him with more secrets, and called himself a witcher again after all these years.

Vesemir shook his head, maybe he _was_ getting too old for this shit.

“I had no idea you could do this—all of this—“ he heard Geralt whispered outside his door, sounded a bit frustrated but still trying to keep his voice down, “Have you actually planned it?”

Ah, Geralt, Vesemir mused, he was the first one to come visit Vesemir when he woke up the next morning, he’d sat with him and wished him a happy Yuletide—gained himself a smack over the head— and told him all his worries and fears, his troubles of Ciri would leave once again with Avallac’h, the voice of the King of the Wild Hunt in his head, but he never talked about _Emhyr_.

Apparently they haven’t got a chance to talk about it between themselves either. Although they did have plenty of _other_ chances. Vesemir heard them again on the second day when everyone else was busy trying their best to put things back together and to still enjoy what was left of Yuletide—thankfully, everyone besides a few poor Nilfgaardian soldiers were all fine, including Dandelion who had merely fainted at the beginning of that fateful confrontation— suddenly nobody cared to disturb them anymore— and he found himself kind of gotten used to hearing them by the seventh.

Emhyr strode in, facing Vesemir with a familiar stubborn expression. Geralt nudged him and he reluctantly sat down on the bed. “We have finished repairing the castle. Including both the parts destroyed by the Wild Hunt and the old damages.” He said. Vesemir noticed something different.

“You are wearing the wolf school gear.” Vesemir pointed out.

“There is no need to keep it a secret any longer,” Emhyr shrugged. He looked at Geralt, who was regarding him back with slightly narrowed eyes and a funny expression.

“Right, the Nilfgaardians would go mad to hear that their emperor is now literally blessed by the Great Sun. I can’t wait to see what more could happen when we come back here _next year_.”

“Vesemir,” Emhyr huffed and said, standing up and suddenly smiling, as if a huge burden unloaded from his shoulders, “you should have a look at your new home and maybe just in time for a late Yuletide celebration.”

The old witcher scowled as he climbed out of the bed and stalked out of the room, the celebration was still going on indeed. Vesemir could smell fresh baked bread and roasted ham and beef stew, and could hear Ciri’s laugh and Dandelion’s high pitched voice singing. Just before entering the great hall he caught a glimpse of what was behind him, Geralt was quietly murmuring to Emhyr, their fingers intertwined.

“Seriously, how _did_ you manage to do all those things?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

 

End


End file.
